


Trapped Wolf

by Katy133



Category: Fargo (TV)
Genre: Breaking and Entering, Dogs, Lorne POV, Mythology References, Original Character Death(s), Set in Season 1 of Fargo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:27:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26332609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katy133/pseuds/Katy133
Summary: Mr Powell. A nice man. Very generous with his money, if not a littletootrusting of people.Anyway, Icouldhave gone in through the front, but that would have narrowed down the list of suspects to,"How many people had access to the master keys?"A list that was, despite Mr Powell's habit of sharing, a rather short one.And, to be frank, what I came here to do wasn't something I wanted people to ask me about. I'm discreet that way.Lorne Malvo performs his role as a hitman. There are, however, some complications.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	Trapped Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> Originally, this was my entry to a fanfic contest I entered back in July. The word limit was 1,000. I ended up winning first place. I'm now posting it here.

~.~

Are you expecting a story that's light and satisfying? If you are, then you might as well pluck out your eyes.

I walk past the front entrance and around to the side of the mansion. In theory, I _could_ have gone in through the front door--Mr Powell had given me a copy of the keys, after all.

 _"You sure this is fine?"_ I asked.

_"Absolutely! Drop by anytime. I enjoy our chats."_

_"Well then, thanks a ton!"_ I had said, in the voice I use that makes me sound light and friendly and _safe_.

Mr Powell. A nice man. Very generous with his money, if not a little _too_ trusting of people.

Anyway, I _could_ have gone in through the front, but that would have narrowed down the list of suspects to, _"How many people had access to the master keys?"_ A list that was, despite Mr Powell's habit of sharing, a rather short one.

And, to be frank, what I came here to do wasn't something I wanted people to ask me about. I'm discreet that way.

As I pass the driveway, I notice that the blue Corvette is absent. Mr Powell's wife had left and wouldn't be back for another five hours. Good.

Some of the black Vespas are still there. But it's early morning. Business people are still getting their coffee. They won't be ready to stare out the window yet.

The nice thing about scenic country estates converted to business offices is that they're in the middle of nowhere. Makes it a lot more convenient to scale a building, even in broad daylight.

I open the window. It isn't locked, so no sounds of breaking glass. People always think they're safe on the top floor.

I'm in the kitchen. The guard dog won't be barking at me. By now, it will have gotten used to my particular scent. Guess all those visits as "Mr Frank Peterson" paid off.

The dog's a Rottweiler, if you care about knowing. The go-to dog to show that you have something worth guarding. His name is Brutus, but don't let the name fool you. Brutus is actually quite a softie. When he's not chasing down a stranger in the dead of night.

But it's not night. He is sitting in his dog bed, staring up at me.

I walk through the familiar hallway to Mr Powell's study. He is where he usually is. Typing away at his computer. His back is facing me. Hopefully, he doesn't notice my reflection on the screen.

I slowly walk up to him. I pull out my nylon thread, wrapping it purposefully around my left hand, and--

And. Well. Use your imagination.

I leave some muddy shoe prints on the carpet. Not too muddy--I know that forensics will use their tech to search the room. The shoes are duplicates of one of Powell's business rivals. Far too tight on my own feet--not a match for my physical description at all. Ideal.

That's when I hear the loud bang of splintering wood.

It came from the ground floor. I peer out through the balcony window in the study--of _course_ his floor has a balcony--and see two men in dark coats.

Mr Numbers and Mr Wrench.

You ever have intrusive thoughts? Of course you do. In the middle of what is happening, I suddenly think about Fenrir. You know him? The wolf from Norse myth.

He's my favourite.

Fenrir was a wolf so strong that even the gods feared him. They would wrap him up in chains and rope, only for the wolf to twist and writhe out of them each time. Good old Fenrir.

I turn back to Brutus and smile grimly at him. _Well. It seems we have a complication. Life's never simple for us wolves, is it?_

I feel a small surge of empathy with Brutus for a moment. As the Greek philosophers put it, _Every dog's a wolf when there's no owner attached._

Fenrir's undoing in the myth was that he didn't recognise treachery when it was right in front of him.

I eye the two figures. There was indeed treachery here.

I see them walk into the building. They will undoubtedly take the elevator because they are too lazy to take the stairs. It's human nature. Subpar hitmen are just like everyone else, when you get right down to it. It's almost strangely endearing. Almost.

That will mean I have around, let's say, fifteen minutes until my absence in this space will be required. I mentally start the countdown.

_They are crossing the threshold. Ground floor. Vestibule._

I think about my options. I'm a wolf inside a den with several exits.

_They'll be inside the elevator now. Passing the Second floor. Accounting and records._

I walk back to the open kitchen window. I begin the descent down. The wolf began twisting out of his chains.

_Third floor. Bears._

I exit to the stolen company car waiting for me in the driveway. I had parked it there the evening before. It's good to be prepared.

_Fourth floor. Getting close to Mr Powell now._

For a moment, whilst in the kitchen, I had contemplated using the stairs to go down. Sacrificing carefulness with haste.

I had even considered just waiting in front of the elevator. The doors would open, and they'd be _so_ surprised to see me, waiting for them.

I can picture it perfectly. They would have done nothing for a moment, trying to process what was in front of them. The shorter one, Numbers, would have opened his mouth. Maybe to say, _"How?"_ or, _"You?"_ or maybe just to curse at me. But the pause would have been there.

It would have given me enough time to kill them.

Turning the ignition key, I decide to leave the two of them to Brutus' capable hands. Or rather, capable teeth.

It looks like Fenrir will escape to fight another day.

~.~

**Author's Note:**

> "Third floor. Bears," is a reference to Kentucky Route Zero.


End file.
